Mad Love, Bloody Hands

Chapter 1 - A Siren Bleeds Red

The air in the underground fight ring reeked of sweat, cheap liquor, blood, and desperation. The crowd screamed as fists collided with flesh, teeth split lips, and bones cracked beneath boots. Money exchanged hands at lightning speed—crumpled bills, gold rings, pills. The stench of sin was almost holy here.

And at the center of it all, under flickering red lights and behind a chain-link cage, stood Angela.

She tilted her head, letting her black and green-highlighted hair fall into her face as her opponent lunged. The man was a solid wall of muscle and rage, roaring like an animal as he charged at her like he hadn't just taken three hits to the ribs.

Amateur.

Angela's eyes glittered—dark brown and smoldering, like ash stirred in a dying flame. She let him come, let him think he had her. Right until she stepped to the side like a whisper of smoke, spun on her heel, and drove her elbow into the back of his skull.

The crowd lost their damn minds.

The man fell face-first with a sickening thud. Motionless.

Angela stepped over him, blood dripping from a split in her knuckle, and raised one brow at the crowd through the cage. Their cheers rolled like thunder. She wasn't just a fighter. She was the main event.

"That all you got, Gotham?" she said, voice thick with sweat and sarcasm. "I was hoping for something fun."

Upstairs, behind a wall of reinforced glass in a private balcony suite, Joker let out a low whistle. "Mmmm," he purred, tongue running over a silver tooth. "Now that's a show."

Harlen Quinn, draped in pink-tinted aviators and a sleeveless mesh top, was already leaning over the rail, chewing a stick of cherry gum and grinning. "She's got moves," he cooed. "And an ass that could start a riot."

"Find out who she is," Joker said, eyes still fixed on the ring. "And whether she wants to start one for me."

✦

Angela lit a cigarette in the locker room, ignoring the gash on her shoulder. The red was already mixing with black ink—right near the dragon and lilies on her hip, coiled and majestic. It had been a gift to herself, the night she killed her first handler. The lilies were for her mother. The dragon? For the fire she never let go out.

"You're bleeding on the floor again," came a voice.

"I'll mop it up," she replied flatly.

She didn't flinch when the club's owner, Leo, stepped in. He looked nervous, which was weird. Leo was many things—slime, sleaze, opportunistic—but rarely afraid.

"You got company," he said.

"Tell 'em I don't give private shows."

"You'll wanna give this one."

Angela raised a brow. "Oh yeah? Who's so special they get my time for free?"

Leo swallowed, lips pale. "Joker."

Angela froze.

Then she smiled slowly. "...Tell him I'm busy. Unless he wants to fight me in the ring, he can wait."

Leo turned pale. "Angel—"

"Now."

By the time she emerged upstairs—wearing nothing but leather pants, combat boots, and a black bra beneath her half-zipped hoodie—Harlen Quinn was sprawled on a blood-red velvet couch, kicking his feet like a bored teenager. Joker sat in a massive chair carved like a throne, swirling something dark in a crystal glass.